


oh, i can soothe myself with irony

by herowndeliverance (atheilen)



Series: at the moment of awakening [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathing/Washing, Coffee, Come Marking, Comeplay, Dom/sub, Gags, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, Idiots in Love, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Praise Kink, Public Claiming, Public Scene, Sexual Fantasy, Spanking, Tea, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-09 05:38:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13474794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen/pseuds/herowndeliverance
Summary: Two aspiring lawyers have huge workloads, very little free time, and frustratingly attractive classmates. They can't solve any of these problems, but each can give himself a bit of respite.





	1. his glittering eyes and his tender smile

**Author's Note:**

> Still no actual sex, but Hamilton and Burr sure do think about it a lot.

He tried not to think of Betsey.

In a way, it would be the most natural thing in the world for him to do so. She had been his Domme, after all, and a very good one, before Hamilton had fucked it up by defying her orders and the purpose ordained for him by God by returning to the war. But she was the mother of his son, and they were starting to be friends, something they had never quite been when he knelt for her, and he didn’t want to screw up the fragile peace they were building by asking her for too much, even in his mind. He knew himself well enough to know where that would lead, so best not to start down that road at all.

But he had to think of someone, he was too wound up to sleep or study, and the latest glossy centerfold wouldn't do. He needed some sort of release, and he simply did not have time tonight to go to a club. But he had the thrumming, anxious feeling of wrongness he got when he hadn't subbed in too long, so wringing one out it was, followed by a quick nap. The Law, the only master he would ever have now, had no patience for the needs of submissives, so Hamilton must be as cold and rational as any of its adherents, his logic as beautifully precise as...well. The people he was competing with didn't matter. Hamilton certainly didn't want to think of  _ them  _ just now.

….yeah, he did. They'd studied together, he and Troup and...others. Hamilton had been reading a legal brief and suddenly noticed the elegance of Aaron Burr’s wrist as he turned the page. The man was as fine-boned as any sub, and Hamilton found the contrast between his small wrist and long, tapered fingers, when attached to arms of such strength as Burr’s...intriguing. A Dominant with half a brain could do clever things with that combination. Hamilton couldn't be blamed for noticing what any debutant would.

But Burr had noticed him noticing, and Burr had smirked in that arrogant, insufferable,  _ Dominant  _ way he had, and said something unforgivable:

“You look tired, Hamilton. Why don’t we take a break?”

Like Hamilton couldn't handle himself, like he was so out of his mind with lust at the mere sight of Aaron Burr that he couldn't function. Infuriating.

He was hard, now. Achingly, embarrassingly so, so much that if any handsome Dom, a stranger, dark of hair and eye, let's say, were to find him, he would know immediately the cause of Hamilton’s distress, and he would say….

No. This was all wrong. Fuck it, if he was going to have this fantasy...and it looked like he was going to have this fantasy, that was just where his life was now, which was just bloody fantastic...he was going to  _ fully commit _ to it. He was going to jerk off to the thought of Aaron Burr, not some offbrand analogue conjured by his imagination.

He grabbed the lube. Lay back. Began stroking himself gently. Sometimes he himself skimped on lube because he was in a hurry and just wanted to come, but he knew Burr never would. Not out of kindness, but because Burr took his time with everything. He would be slow, methodical, deliberate.

Also, Burr took care of his things. That thought alone made Hamilton groan, and he had to take his hand away to prevent a premature end to his pleasure. Burr’s shirts were always ironed, his shoes were always polished, and his briefcase was always tidy. He would not allow chafing or tearing in a sub he’d claimed. He imagined them in the law library, none of the rest of the study group there, just the two of them, as Burr bent him over the desk and spread him open for his use, because that was what Hamilton was there for, that was his only purpose...

“Fuck,” said Hamilton. He should not find the thought of Burr using him as a possession, a toy to be taken out and played with and  _ oh god fuck  _ cleaned up and put away, so goddamn hot. It went against everything he had spent his whole life fighting for and everything he believed in, he wanted to be treated as a person and an equal, he wanted the love and respect of his Dominant.

Okay. He’d slow it down, then--he would think about Burr asking, all polite and gentlemanlike, if he could court Hamilton. They would still be in the law library, but this time Hamilton would be sitting across from him, still in possession of all his books and all his faculties, and the playing field would be level. Burr would smile at him, take his hand, and ask if Hamilton would consent to wear his collar and come to his bed. Christ, how would that conversation even start? He tried to imagine Burr asking if they could swap checklists, the way all the kids seemed to be doing these days, even outside of clubs--’negotiated consent’ was apparently the new ‘in’ trend. He couldn’t even begin to invent dialogue for that before he started giggling like a demented maniac. God. They wouldn’t get as far as five minutes.

\--they  _ wouldn’t  _ get as far as five minutes, because Burr would ask in his dismissive, arrogant, annoyingly Burrlike way, and Hamilton would say no, like the independently-minded Revolutionary sub he was.

“No?” Burr would smile, cluck his tongue like a disappointed teacher. “I think you’re lying to me, Hamilton.”

And Hamilton was brave, Hamilton was a soldier, so he would stare Burr down, stand up straight, thrust out his chin in defiance, and say, “I don’t want you. You’ll have to make me.”

And Burr would stalk to Hamilton with the grace of some hunting cat, and he would force Hamilton to his knees….

No. No, he wouldn’t. It would be worse, oh, God, it would be so much worse. Burr would reach out a hand, ghosting one of those elegant fingers down Hamilton’s cheek. “I won’t make you, boy,” he would say. “In fact, that’s the last time I’ll touch you, until you beg me for it.” Then he would take his hand away, but Hamilton would still feel the imprint of his touch, his cheek flaming as if Burr had branded him there.

“I won’t,” Hamilton would say, “God, are you delusional? I don’t want this, Burr.”

Burr would say nothing. Burr would go back to his table, take out his books, and wait.

And Hamilton, well, Hamilton would try to hold out. He’d go back to his books too, but he wouldn’t be able to concentrate, and eventually it would be too much.

“Please,” he would say, but he would know even as he said it that it was not enough. “Please, Sir, please claim me, please fuck me.”

“Pitiful,” Burr would smirk. “It’s like you’re not even trying. Didn’t they praise you for your initiative in the army?”

So Hamilton, never one to back down from a challenge, would fall to his knees in front of Burr’s chair, and he would kiss the leather of Burr’s shoe…

..only to be dragged roughly back up by his hair, and tears would spring to his eyes, his pain mixing with his arousal and driving him ever closer to the edge. “No,” Burr would growl. “You haven’t earned that privilege yet, submissive. You’re going to learn to control your mouth, and only use it for the purposes I want it to be used. Now you’ll say what I’ve been waiting to hear.” And he would yank harder on Hamilton’s hair.

“I don't...I don't know what you want me to say, Sir, I can't....”

“I think you do know, Hamilton, but since I am a merciful preceptor, I'll ask you some questions to clarify your thoughts.” His hand would twist, giving Hamilton a blissful bolt of pain. “What are you, Hamilton?”

“A sub, Sir,” he would admit. “Your sub.” And even in defeat he would not be able to help a thrill as he spoke the words, for he would finally know himself wanted, claimed,  _ owned  _ in the way all subs were supposed to want, the way that had always been denied him before.

But Burr would shake his head. “How disappointing. You're getting ahead of yourself as usual. It's why you'll never make it as a lawyer, you know, you think too fast and then make these sloppy, embarrassing errors. What arrogance possessed you, to think you were worth calling  _ mine? _ ” 

And Hamilton would...oh, no, Hamilton would start to cry, because he would know Burr’s demand, what he would have to give up to be satisfied.

“What is a sub, boy?” Burr would croon.

“A hole,” he would have to say, “for you to fuck, for you to use. Sir.”

Burr would laugh, that laugh of his that charmed all the professors and their subs at department events. “Maybe,” he would say. “If you’re good.” Infuriating, and extremely like Burr, to not even tell him whether or not he’d gotten it right. Hamilton took a second to congratulate himself on that little detail, admiring his own dedication to verisimilitude.

And then somehow there would be a gag in his mouth--he wasn’t sure how Burr would get it in there, but fuck it, this was a fantasy, he shouldn’t have to worry about logistics at a time like this--and Burr would have him over his lap, and he would yank Hamilton’s pants down over Hamilton’s strangled protests.

“Count, boy,” he would say. “Oh, dear, you can’t, can you? That mouth of yours will do you no good anymore. Might do me some, though. We’ll see.”

Burr’s hand would come down on his ass with a searing  _ crack, _ and Hamilton--

\--Hamilton  _ keened,  _ and came in shuddering spurts, all over his thighs and the sheets and his hand. He closed his eyes, suddenly and painfully aware of his heavy, gasping breathing, almost like he really had been sobbing.

That--that was intense. And weird, that his fantasies had gone in such a wildly different direction from what he actually liked. He hated being spanked, it was humiliating without being intense enough sexually to allow him release. He certainly didn’t want to kiss any Dom’s feet,  _ least  _ of all Aaron Burr’s. And he absolutely refused to be gagged, now; the last time he’d let anyone try was Betsey and she’d--

Well. Better that he not think about that. It was all right to fantasize about things you’d never actually want to do in real life, wasn’t it? It didn’t have to mean that he was really like that, that he would really say any of those things.

He had better clean up the mess he made. Which in itself proved this was a silly fantasy; the real Burr would totally be into orgasm denial, and would never tolerate a sub who came so shamefully quickly. Might take steps to make sure he couldn’t. Hell, he’d probably lock up Hamilton’s cock and teach him the error of his ways.

Fuck.

“Lick it up,” Burr might say. “Then I shall allow you to make atonement. You may thank me, Hamilton, for being so lenient.”

Hamilton didn’t sleep that night.


	2. that bold, handsome man who pressed my arm

Hamilton looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

This was hardly unusual for Hamilton, of course. Dark circles under the man’s eyes weren't so much common as a permanent feature of his face. But there were stages to Alexander Hamilton’s sleep deprivation. In the beginning of law school, Burr would often find him taking catnaps--or ‘power naps,’ as he liked to call them--’in the library or in vacant classrooms. He would rise from these with a sudden burst of energy, and work for a few hours before taking his rest again.

But Burr hadn’t seen him like this since the war, when he would work like a man possessed, as if chained to his desk and held there by a Dominant’s lash. It was almost like he _couldn’t_ rest, even if he wanted to, and Burr had found it disturbing even then, when the stakes were so much higher. Now it unnerved him even more, seeing the cavernous circles under Hamilton’s eyes, the way they couldn’t quite focus.

Hamilton was carrying two cups of coffee, which, really, was typical Hamiltonian excess. He was probably drinking them just to show off, not for their efficacy. His hands trembled, and a few drops of the coffee spilled out.

Oh. Hamilton stopped in front of Burr’s desk and set one of the coffee cups down on it. “For you,” he said, his voice a whispered rasp. “Sir.”

“Thank you,” Burr said, because it was rude to refuse a submissive’s gifts even if you weren’t courting them, and doing so would call attention to him in a way he didn’t want. He took a sip. Tasted the whipped cream and salted caramel that marked his secret favorite, which Hamilton unfortunately knew about because he’d caught him pulling an all-nighter once. It was perfect--Hamilton had even remembered the extra espresso shot and extra salted caramel drizzle.

That was unfair. That was _insolent,_ to call attention to Burr’s weakness in this manner. Because obviously that was what was happening here, because the other possibility was that Hamilton was _interested_ and doing a service for him unasked, and that would never happen. So Hamilton was thumbing his nose at him, rubbing in his superhuman ability to work, making fun of Burr’s secret preferences.

Unbelievable. It almost made him not want to drink the damn coffee.

Almost.

Hamilton took his seat and guzzled back his own disgusting drink like he was taking shots of liquor instead of espresso. He had probably ordered one of those coffees that had an espresso shot in it, because the bastard hated himself and also all fun and pleasure.

 _Someone should teach him better,_ Burr thought. _Someone should take better care of him._ It was not the first time he had had this thought. It would not be the last.

Unfortunately, it was a very distracting thought, enough so that he missed answering when called upon in class. Hamilton had the gall to smile at him in fake sympathy when it happened. Burr tried not to stare at the curve of his mouth.

All this meant that by the time Burr got home, he was in an extremely bad mood, and needed to find a place to vent his frustrations. The lovely Theodosia’s daily letter rested on his bedside table, but he did not wish to taint her love and freely given submission with Hamilton’s petty nonsense.

So Hamilton himself would have to do. Burr thought it would be unwise to challenge him openly, especially now when they were just starting their careers. So he wouldn’t pick a fight even though he knew Hamilton wanted him to.

Here, though, in the privacy of Burr’s room, with the curtains drawn--here, in Burr’s mind, Hamilton would be whatever Burr wanted him to be. The man wanted to do him a service? Burr thought even he would be shocked, if he knew what service he had already been put to, what manner of debauchery Burr used him for when there was no one, not even Hamilton, who could judge him.

Burr thought he should feel some manner of guilt for that. _But I say unto you, that whosoever looketh on a submissive to lust after him hath committed adultery with him already in his heart._ and all that. But Hamilton was bound to no one, really...even Schuyler and Laurens couldn't hold him, and the rumors of his many brief liaisons since then were legendary. As for Burr, he had...hopes, for Mrs. Prevost, but little more than that. Having committed actual adultery, the kind in his heart seemed hardly a sin at all.

Besides. It was the least Hamilton could do. And it would flatter his ego to be thought of so, no matter his personal distaste for Burr.

Burr stroked himself in a leisurely fashion. He was going to take his time with this. He was going to _savor_ this, and wouldn't Hamilton just hate that? Burr let himself imagine it...Hamilton coming to him for a quick, clandestine fuck because in his mind, that was all Burr was good for. He wouldn't kneel for Burr, wouldn't accept his collar or his orders, but he would grab Burr as though he had the right, as forceful as any Dominant, and demand his pleasure.

Burr would delight in denying him. “No, Hamilton,” he would say. “Not until you learn your manners.” He would be gentle in his corrections at first, because he knew that would piss Hamilton off like nothing else. And Burr wanted him furious. Burr wanted him _helpless._

Didn’t he?

“We don't have time, Burr,” Hamilton would growl, and then...then he would appeal to Burr’s own self-interest. “Don't you want to get off, sir?” he would ask. “We have to do it soon, we could be discovered at any moment. Don't you want my hands, my fingers, my mouth around your cock? I know you do, sir, I saw you staring at my mouth all through class and I knew you were imagining how good it would feel when I suck you off. You wanna know how I know? Because I was thinking about it too, sir. It was all I could think about and now I'm gonna take it.”

But for once, Burr would have the upper hand. He would smirk, slowly, enjoying the feeling of having Hamilton so completely in his power even as Hamilton himself hadn't realized it yet. “What's it to me if we are caught?” he would say. “All they'll see is how desperate you are for me, Hamilton. And I find I rather like the thought of everyone knowing just how badly you want my cock down your throat.”

“Fuck you,” Hamilton would say, blushing, and Burr would know he had hit the mark.

That might be a good direction to take this little fantasy, actually. Hamilton in chains, like in the old days when to claim a sub was to capture him and to keep one was to hold him by force. Hamilton was an exhibitionist, Burr knew. He’d heard enough gossip about how the man played, and had even seen him display himself once or twice, though never for Burr’s pleasure. Hamilton was a beautiful man, a graceful sub, and he knew that and delighted in it.

But it would be different if he _had_ to. If Burr claimed him and then wanted to show off his spoils. He would struggle then. Might even kick or bite like the half-wild creature he was. Burr savored the imagined pain, the way it made the world go into sharper focus. It made the thrill of conquest, of Hamilton’s eventual surrender, even sweeter, knowing that he had _earned_ it, that Hamilton was his not by right of birth or money but because he could not help but go to his knees and bare his neck for Burr.

Burr gripped his cock more firmly, the way he would wring Hamilton’s orgasm from him before binding him naked to the whipping post. That way, Hamilton would feel only the pain of being beaten, and not the pleasure, and would also have to contend with the humiliation of his own come dripping down his legs. You had to be careful with masochists, to make sure they were learning the lessons you wanted to teach them with pain, and not getting their own, less constructive ideas. And if anyone would know how to snatch pleasure from what should be punishment, it would be Hamilton: that was basically how the man lived his entire life. So Burr would give him his pleasure first, because he was at his core a merciful man. And Hamilton wouldn’t realize that his mercy was double-edged, that now his every nerve ending would be exposed for the whipping he would take, his punishment for the insolence he’d displayed in kneeling for others when both of them _knew_ there was no one else but Burr for him.

Burr would mark him with his own spunk, too, of course. Just to really hammer home the message that this was Hamilton’s true place and always had been. Not because Hamilton would look even more beautiful like that, with Burr’s come shiny and slick on his face, dripping from those pinkish cheeks, that obscene mouth.

Okay. Maybe a little bit because of that, too. Burr was only human, after all.

He thought about how it would be to see Hamilton up on the post, back stretched taut for him, muscles rippling in the sunlight as everyone watched his claiming. They would all be sick with envy, that Burr got to be the one to claim Hamilton, but they would revel to see his arrogance crushed as much as Burr would. Burr didn’t know which way Hamilton would jump: would he endure it stoically, or meet it with defiance? Either way, Burr knew that it would take a lot to make him break, to make him sob, to make him beg.

Which was what he wanted. He would whip him until his back was raw, if that was what it took.

Except--interesting. His erection flagged as he thought of Hamilton broken, for some reason. Which was ridiculous; he was a sadist, for God’s sake.

 _Know thyself,_ he thought with a sigh. He closed his eyes, and let himself imagine this same room, only strewn with moonlight, the better to illuminate Hamilton’s limbs. Hamilton would be bound to the bed with ropes, his only ornament but for his collar, and the sheets would be silk, because Hamilton-- _his boy_ \--deserved nothing but the best.

Hamilton talked even more when he was tired; that was a matter of record. So he would babble: “Did you see, Sir? Did you see how they all knew I was yours?”

Burr would rest his hand on the collar. “I saw, darling. You did very well for me. Be still, now: I’m going to clean you up.” And he would, washing Hamilton, being ever so careful of his marks. Marks Burr had given him, and that he now wanted to soothe, because both were his right. And that was when his boy would finally let himself cry, and Aaron would in turn let himself kiss the tears away, tasting salt.

“My beautiful boy,” he would whisper. “My lovely Alexander. I’m so proud of you, so glad you’re mine.”

The force of his orgasm took Burr completely by surprise. He hadn’t even noticed it building deep within him, and he came so hard he saw stars behind his eyes. It took him several long moments to recover and come back to his senses.

Well. That was a hypothesis confirmed, anyway, even if it wasn’t quite the result he wanted. Damn Hamilton for being so easy to fall for, and so hard to fall out of love with. Eventually, Burr would manage it.

But not today. Not yet…

The next evening, Burr made chamomile tea and brought it to their study session. “To help you sleep,” he told Hamilton.

Hamilton rolled his eyes, but he drank every drop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for my muse *blows a kiss*

**Author's Note:**

> Next is Burr's part.


End file.
